


Boogie Man's Jam

by moochymochi



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Demonic Possession, Demons, Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 03:26:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16485098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moochymochi/pseuds/moochymochi
Summary: Patrick searches for a gift to give Pete for Halloween, and instead finds himself at the mercy of something not of this world.





	Boogie Man's Jam

“Okay, babe. I’ll be there soon,” Patrick promised. He balanced the cell phone between his cheek and shoulder, free hands perusing the wide selection of vinyls.

“But, like, when?” Pete whined on the other end. He huffed and could be heard adjusting his position on the bed.

“Probably in an hour? An hour-ish?”

“Lame.”

Patrick pursed his lips, “Lame enough to be with you. Anyway, love you, bye.”

“Love yooouuu--”

Patrick hung up. The cashier behind the counter, an younger woman with a perm, had been glowering during the conversation. He figured that trying to shush his boyfriend while pawing through every single record wasn’t the most polite thing in the world. His fingers became more frantic at the thought, the cardboard jacket covers slapping together in his search.

Halloween was less than a week away, and Pete hadn’t been shy in how excited he was. The holiday seemed to make him foam at the mouth with joy. It was corn maze this, horror movie marathon that - he had even brought Patrick a ‘spooky basket’ filled with candy bars and glittery ghost stickers and Jack Skellington socks. It was cute, exhaustingly cute. 

And now Patrick was trying to return the favor.

He wanted to bask in the festive enthusiasm, and he _definitely_ wanted to repay Pete for all recent the dates and treats. Nothing was worse than one-sided spoiling in a relationship. That wasn’t healthy. So here he was, browsing for a gift at a new vinyl store that had popped up on the street behind their apartment and a few miles from their university. 

For a fresh set up, Patrick thought that the building was rather.. ancient? Mysterious? It had a crusty brick exterior, contrasting the shiny downtown Chicago buildings, and its insides were coated in chipped black paint. The posters tacked on the walls were all unrecognizable bands, and the smelll of rotten wood lingered in every corner. Worse, he swore an unseen pair of eyes was chasing his every move. That invisible gaze scorched a hole in his back when he picked up a particular record - _Beelzebub’s 1960’s Halloween Hits_.

“Hm.” He rotated the jacket cover to better examine the title image. A gleeful demon was shown zapping a cloudy sky with lightning bolts and music notes. It was almost a comedic-looking image, but in the end, it made him shudder, “Uhh..”

All right, so, this was good, right? A devilish record found in a creepy vinyl store? Pete would enjoy this. He checked the price sticker and noticed that it was just under forty dollars. Yeah, Pete had _better_ enjoy this.

Patrick brushed a hand over the wallet in his back pocket, and then approached the register. The permed young woman stared at him. She listened to him try to make small talk before unceremoniously grabbing the record to scan, bag, and toss between them. The crinkly paper sales bag rustled against the countertop, almost in unison with the bills Patrick was presenting.

“Thirty cents,” she clicked her tongue at him. The change was pushed across the counter along with a receipt. “Come again.”

Patrick’s annoyance came out as a curt reply, “Thanks.”

He left in a hurry, only pausing to notice how much warmer it was outside. It must to be close to sixty degrees in the open air - how cold was that shop? His nose began to burn with a defrosting sensation, the unseen eyes still chasing him. He felt that he shouldn’t turn around, so he didn’t.

The walk home turned into a jog home.

Patrick was greeted by Pete’s smile and a freshly-made pot of Kraft Mac & Cheese. Even better - worse? - the Mac & Cheese had sliced up chunks of hotdog mixed into it. He quickly toed off his boots and hid the record behind his back.

“Oohh, is that what took you so long?” Pete questioned, noticing the attempt his boyfriend made to hide whatever he had. “Can I see?”

“No, shoo,” Patrick told him. He dropped his book bag and hustled toward the bedroom to find a safe place for his purchase. He heard Pete’s voice approaching, not really listening to it, and shoved the record up among his closet shelf clutter. 

“Did you hear me?” Pete had followed him into the bedroom, stopping to lean on the doorframe.

Patrick sighed in relief, his secret spot uncompromised, “What?”

“I said ‘Did you hear me?’”

“Hear what?”

“I _said_ ,” Pete’s impatience was cutting through, “if you’re not going to show me what you’ve got, then you had better be ready to distract me with some stellar smooches.”

Patrick repeated the sigh, “Yeah? That’s all?”

“That’s all, Rick.”

They laughed and returned to the kitchen, the request for kisses fulfilled. Dinner was eaten, dishes were done, and a few episodes of a Netflix drama were watched. A routine they couldn’t imagine life without. Their eleventh floor apartment was peaceful beneath the pale October moon.

The bedroom remained unoccupied until well after midnight.

Patrick crept inside, hoping to be silent enough to not wake a snoring Pete on the couch. He shut the bedroom door behind him and went straight for the hidden vinyl, hands a bit tense as he shook it free of its jacket cover. Once he had fumbled the nightstand’s lamp to be switched on, he headed for their turntable; it was a beloved old contraption, bought at the city’s original Saturday flea market. It was made of cherrywood and had an inlaid floral pattern on the speaker mesh. Its best feature, especially for this very moment, was that its volume could be lowered to an absolute whisper.

While he should have listened to this damn thing before taking it home, he was grateful that he had the chance for a preview before gifting it. He knew that he had a pretty great intuition for what constituted ‘good’ music, they both did, actually, though he needed to be exactly one hundred percent sure that he had chosen something good. 

“Ah, there we go,” he murmured to himself. He had placed the record on the turntable, blown off a smidge of dust, and dropped the needle.

Patrick waited and heard nothing but static. He dropped the needle in a different position and continued to wait. More static.

“.. This is stupid.”

_CRASH!_

In a gust of wind, Patrick was thrown backward. He managed to flail his arms to the side and not hit the wall, though his head struck an empty bookshelf. The shocked yelp that escaped him was drowned in the ominous roar of the record player. He panicked and tried to call for help, soon finding that his voice was caught in his throat. The air had become thick, sticky in a way that dizzied him. It soured anything he had to say, and he was forced to be silently open-mouthed in horror.

_“WONDERFUL. GLORIOUS. MY TIME HAS COME.”_

These words rattled Patrick to the marrow of his bones. He heard this otherworldly voice fill the entire bedroom, fill every crevice of his brain. He swore he could feel the shag carpet vibrate under his feet, his skin rippling with a swarm of goosebumps. It was disturbing and made his body ache with an unknown exhaustion. His eyes felt like the only controllable part of him, and he was desperate to close them. He didn’t know what the hell was happening and certainly didn’t want to see it. Slowly, he closed his eyes, just after watching the record player explode. It split into metal and wood chips, a greenish glow enveloping the wreckage. What came next was completely lost on him as the cosmos went dark and thrust the voice upon him.

_“WHAT A PITIFUL VESSEL.”_

\---

“Eyy, hurry up in there!” Pete called from the other side of the bathroom door. “I gotta pee!”

Patrick opened his eyes to focus on the mirror. He looked as if he had been crying, trembling lower lip included. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember what he had been crying over. He couldn’t remember why he was in the bathroom, either. 

“Be right out,” he replied. He grabbed the plastic cup beside the sink, filled it, and chugged it before opening the door. In trying to stir his memory, a vile pain darted along his spine and exited his mouth with a howl, “Can’t you be fucking patient? Goddamn!”

“Wait, me? Are you mad?” Pete was surprised, the sudden mood swing of his boyfriend something he rarely saw.

“Just shut up and go. I hate looking at you.”

“Sure?”

Pete trotted into the bathroom and pulled down his banana pajama bottoms to relieve himself. He yawned and stretched a bit, not ready for the onslaught that was about to erupt from his boyfriend.

Patrick licked his lips, laying into him, “Always with the bullshit. I can’t even begin to understand what possessed me to be with you in the first place.”

“Huh?” Pete shook his head and reached to flush the toilet. He spoke over the sound of swirling water, asking, “Are you mad because of my date idea?”

“No!”

“.. Weeell, we’re still going to the costume party. And we need to go pick out our costumes, haha.”

Patrick said nothing in response. Instead, he hocked a loogie right into that messy black hair.

With a gasp, Pete reached up to touch the wet patch and wrinkled his brow, “Is this, you know, you trying to be cute? You wanna play?”

“Fuck off!”

Pete sprang forward with his hands cruising for an easy target. His fingers landed on Patrick’s hips and he squeezed hard. A solid amount of struggling and cursing went on until he could bring their lips together, savoring that morning breath.

When they broke apart, there was an unspoken, enormous spatial shift in their shared energy. Pete was grinning and Patrick looked like he had seen a ghost.

“You’re a handful and I love it. C’mere!”

Pinned to the nearest wall with more kisses, Patrick peered past the open door of their bedroom. The pain in his spine had disappeared, and his instincts told him to search for its cause. The source was somehow nearby.

Everything was fine in the bedroom, in fact, their sweet little record player appeared to have been dusted recently. 

At the costume shop, which was a thrift store down the street from their apartment, the day carried on as usual. Or at least, whatever could be considered ‘as usual’ for Halloween. The anticipation and danger for the night’s coming festivities floated effortlessly in the autumnal breeze.

“How about we be Bonnie and Clyde?” Pete offered, sifting among the shop’s sale rack.

Patrick laughed, “No one will get that. Besides, I’m not pretty enough to be Bonnie.”

“I thought I was Bonnie!”

Patrick elbowed him and then dodged an oncoming swipe. He ran to the left, able to weave past the racks of musty clothes. He could hear Pete’s knockoff Doc Martens chasing behind him, the rubber soles slapping the tiled floor. When he had nowhere else to go, he stopped at a wall full of wigs. His arms flew up in surrender and he let Pete smother him with a hug. He exhaled, “Maybe we could use some of these wigs?”

“Ehh,” Pete mumbled. He shrugged, “It’s kinda gross, isn’t it?”

“We can wash them? Or, I guess, I can wash them if you’re that scared.”

“Hm..”

They rifled through the various wigs and took their time doing so. Each one was sealed away in a plastic protectant baggie, the inspection of the wigs’ quality made all the more difficult. There were old ones, new ones, red ones, blues, and definitely ones that belonged with a Dr. Seuss-inspired outfit. Halfway into their hunt, they came discovered a Prince and David Bowie set, packed together in a way that wouldn’t allow them to be separated. They were sharing giddy expressions a moment later.

“Dibs on Bowie!” Patrick exclaimed.

“And dibs on Prince,” Pete said. “People will totally get this, right? Plus, we love these guys!”

“I’m sure people will get it. Everyone there will be in their 20’s.”

Thrilled with their find, they skimmed the store for a few more items they needed; a ruffled blouse paired with a velvet purple blazer, and shimmery cape paired with some flaming red boots and trousers. The other parts of the costume could be scavenged from their closets at home, or from the theater makeup kit they had stolen during last Halloween’s shenanigans. 

Patrick’s spirits were high on the walk home, the sun beginning to rest its head low in the clouds. He was completely removed from the pain he had experienced earlier, right up to the point where Pete reminded, of course.

Whispering in his boyfriend’s ear on the cramped L Train, Pete asked, “Am I going to be seeing anymore of that attitude today? You were wild, Rick.”

“I, what?” Patrick gulped.

“You weren’t acting like yourself. But, hey, it’s cool.”

\---

Dolled up and eager to let loose, they arrived at the given address, a home in the suburb of Kenwood, at around half past ten. Supposedly, the people that had invited them were Pete’s friends in his political science classes. It had started at ten, but, obviously, Pete wanted to be fashionably late. Plus, Patrick had needed an extra half hour to get the lightning bolt across his face just right.

Patrick cleared his throat, abruptly self-conscious, “You checked with them that I could come, didn’t you? I don’t want to be that weird gay kid no one invited.”

“Oh, shove it,” Pete chuckled, ringing the doorbell. “If anyone has that title, it’s me.”

Patrick didn’t have a chance to answer, the front door flung wide open. The lights and sounds and faces of people he didn’t know slammed into him, colliding with the return of that pain in his spine. He fought it, hovering for a moment, and managed to quell the incoming howl. Instead, he grunted was was dragged by his wrist into the house.

Why the hell did this hurt so bad?

“This is Dave, and Karla, and Mattie - screw you, Mattie, hah! - and Lacey and Amir and..” Pete babbled in a flurry of introductions. He failed to realize how frightfully tight Patrick was clinging to him, and neither did anyone else. Soon, the whole room knew his name and the ritual of socialization began.

“I heard you’re a music major? Me too!”

“Ah, you guys are Bowie and Prince, nice!”

“How was the drive out here? Have any trouble finding the place?”

Displaying a weak courtesy smile, Patrick interacted for a few minutes and kept Pete perfectly beside him. The pain seemed to be welling up on the tip of his tongue, threatening to spill over in the form of a vicious shout. He didn’t understand what was wrong with him, and when he couldn’t take it for one second longer, he hissed into Pete’s ear that he needed water.

Pete nodded, “By ‘water’ I know you mean a ‘drink’. An alcoholic beverage--”

“ _Water_. _Now_.”

Thankfully, their exchange went unnoticed. They excused themselves to the kitchen and found an empty glass to fill with sink water. 

“I don’t feel so good,” Patrick said with grit teeth as he sipped at the water. His spine was wrapped in a searing flame and forced him to snap, “I want to leave. I wish you hadn’t fucking brought me here, you’re such a dick.”

“Damn, so that attitude really is part of your costume. You really want to go? We can. Too bad we’ve barely been here for fifteen minutes,” Pete said sadly with a wink. He leaned in to get a better look at the level of stress he was dealing with, his lips puckered.

“Don’t-Don’t touch me,” Patrick insisted, afraid that any physical contact would result in an increase of pain. He edged toward the kitchen’s entrance, shaking. There was also an irrational clawing in the far reaches of his mind that told him to avoid those familiar hands.

At any other time, Pete would have behaved and listened to the whole not wanting to be touched thing. However, he had a gut feeling that a little affection was necessary in this situation. He considered himself to be extremely in tune with Patrick. Consequently, the smooch that followed was cloying sweet and tender.

Patrick reeled, “You, ugh!”

“Hey, you okay?” Pete held him close, ignoring another couple that wandered nearby.

“I’m okay,” Patrick replied, winded. He steadied his stance and breath, “Sorry, I was disoriented. What were we talking about again?”

“Nothing, you dork. No drinks for you tonight. C’mon! Let’s go party!”

Patrick obeyed. Through the next couple of hours, he existed in a fog. During ‘Pin the Boner on the Skeleton’, he laughed at the correct times, but the sound came out empty. During the caramel apple eating contest, he devoured his serving, but couldn’t taste the flavors. Neither games nor food could ground him in reality, repeatedly pulled away by a worry about how he had been acting earlier.

The night wore on, and when it came to a drunken round of using a cheap, made-for-stupid-kids Ouija Board he couldn’t pretend that he was peachy keen on it. He couldn’t comprehend what it was, he simply had an inherent urge to leave. Staying here, with these people and their activities, was an awful idea. It was time to go. Why? Because, because..!

“Pete, let’s head home,” Patrick said in his boyfriend’s ear. It was easier to do so this time around, since their wigs had come off an hour ago. Less artificial hair to hide the urgency of his words, “Please, please.”

“Hang on, I wanna see this board thing. I bet demons and shit would think I’m awesome,” Pete chirped.

Stressed to the point of being frozen in place, Patrick didn’t know what to do. He parted his lips to make a second attempt at convincing him, and was met with the pain. It felt amplified from any previous instances, and, before he freaked out, he tried to recall what was the source of his suffering. The most reasonable answer he could produce was that this oddity had started this morning. What had he done last night? Or yesterday in general? He went to school, studied at a café, and then went to the record store. He bought.. a vinyl for Pete. A retro, spooky vinyl that had never reached the hands of its intended recipient. Where was it? Why hadn’t he gifted it? He had played it to test how it sounded and--

In an involuntary series of events, Patrick put a hand over his mouth, shut his eyes, and took several steps back. He was combating against the pain and had to leave this place. If he didn’t find somewhere quiet and private to figure out what he experienced last night, he was terrified that whatever he been exposed to would rip him apart in the middle of this damn party. In the midst of his racing ideas, he heard someone call his name and dared to steal a peek.

Pete had been approaching him, concerned, and on the living room table he saw it: the Ouija Board staring back at him, straight into the shreds of his soul. The wooden center held a greenish, glowing face that launched him into reliving what had actually happened with the vinyl and record player. The face became engorged with pulsating skin and veins, dripping ooze and narrowing its gaze. Invisible to the other partygoers, it screeched and pierced him with shards of unknown agony.

_“YOU CANNOT ESCAPE.”_

Patrick crashed past the front door, praying aloud the make this stop and falling onto the flower patch near the lawn. He writhed in the dirt and bit down hard enough on his tongue to draw blood. His chokes for air were strained and metallic, lost in the shadows of both the yard and his inner thoughts. 

“Patrick! Rick! What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Pete was next to his head, frantic.

Patrick swallowed hard, “I, you, please.. help..!”

“But what’s wrong? Baby, you’re.. What’s the matter!?” 

“Pete..”

“I’ve got you! C’mere, hold me!”

Unable to do what he was told, Patrick lay limp and allowed Pete to cradle him. It was warm and intimate, yet the hallucinogenic monster inside his mind was swayed in the opposite direction. The internal struggle raged on, and he whimpered at the ferocity of the demands.

_“FIGHT. RUN. LEAVE.”_

Pete kissed the top of Patrick’s soft blonde hair and watched him squirm in reaction. He cradled him closer and continued to question him about what was going on. By now, they had an audience gathered at the front door, and he hollered at them to call an ambulance.

The gentle contact that Pete gave provided relief, the right amount to speak up, “I need y-you, please..”

“I’m-I know. Tell me what you need,” Pete begged. A lump in his throat made him snort and readjust his hold.

“.. Gimme a fuckin’ kiss.”

_“NO!”_

Their mouths were immediately locked and universe bent over backwards for them. Everything was hot and cold, excruciating and orgasmic, all the the sensations engulfed them in a process that shouldn’t, couldn’t be real. They pressed together and refused to let go, worshiping each other at the mercy of the stars above.

Pete released them upon detecting the melting tension, jabbering, “What the fuck? Like, what, what’s this all about? Huh?”

Patrick’s pain had dissipated, with little more than tingles in his toes to show for it. He rubbed his eyes and carefully moved to a sitting position. The past twenty four hours had been nothing less than a supernatural occurrence, and he had couldn’t fathom that anyone would believe him. He himself included.

Rather than explain, he went the simplest route for the time being, “I thought you wanted to play? Sorry, I.. got a bit carried away. Happy Halloween, you fucker.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy this rushed, weird-ass fic.


End file.
